Let me write until I am calm
My heart is in my throat. After picking up the blue Sube with its new axle this morning, I gave Charley a quick trot around the block before heading home. Near my driveway, the jingling of another collar warned me that there were more dogs around. I held Charley and headed for home. Suddenly a blue-eyed husky and a huge, brown muscular beast with folds of skin around his neck and eyes (and without a collar)--a true junkyard dog in every way--materialized.
OFF! I shouted, as they swarmed Charley and me.
A jogger passing by stopped. "Big dogs!" I said, somewhat unnecessarily, and then shouted OFF! again as they followed me toward the house.
"I'll watch them while you get in the house," she said. They followed me right up to the front door, and after I'd swung it shut in their faces, they circled the house. Charley went ballistic and I had to speak over his frenzied barks as I described the dogs to a nice lady on the other end of 911. Of course I could barely remember my address and almost gave them my Pennsylvania phone number, but that doesn't surprise anyone.
It doesn't help that I harbor a fear of unknown, big dogs, due to two experiences: one, when I was in third grade, living in North Carolina, and a viscious dog chased Heather, my sister and me, all the way home from the bus stop. Near our house, we both clamored on top of a car. My mother diverted the dog so we could tear across the lawn into the house, and then we stayed closeted inside until Animal Control came and picked him up. The other unhappy history I have with big dogs has to do with my childhood in Kenya, where wee dogs were pets and big dogs were either city strays (for which my mother carried around a can of mace when she walked) or guard dogs--huge, toothy dobermans and german shepherds trained to rip a thief apart. In Nairobi, everyone had gates and broken glass or thorns atop their walls; everyone had bars on their windows; everyone had guards; and lots of people had these big, terrible dogs.
We, on the other hand, had two Jack Russells. We were more interested in the alarm that they provided than the violent destruction of thieves.
I am glad to say that Husky and Big Ugly are gone for now, though I may just take the newly fixed car when I go to pick up Bea instead of walking, until I can be absolutely sure.
And now, after a little writing therapy, I am calm and I can work.
OFF! I shouted, as they swarmed Charley and me.
A jogger passing by stopped. "Big dogs!" I said, somewhat unnecessarily, and then shouted OFF! again as they followed me toward the house.
"I'll watch them while you get in the house," she said. They followed me right up to the front door, and after I'd swung it shut in their faces, they circled the house. Charley went ballistic and I had to speak over his frenzied barks as I described the dogs to a nice lady on the other end of 911. Of course I could barely remember my address and almost gave them my Pennsylvania phone number, but that doesn't surprise anyone.
It doesn't help that I harbor a fear of unknown, big dogs, due to two experiences: one, when I was in third grade, living in North Carolina, and a viscious dog chased Heather, my sister and me, all the way home from the bus stop. Near our house, we both clamored on top of a car. My mother diverted the dog so we could tear across the lawn into the house, and then we stayed closeted inside until Animal Control came and picked him up. The other unhappy history I have with big dogs has to do with my childhood in Kenya, where wee dogs were pets and big dogs were either city strays (for which my mother carried around a can of mace when she walked) or guard dogs--huge, toothy dobermans and german shepherds trained to rip a thief apart. In Nairobi, everyone had gates and broken glass or thorns atop their walls; everyone had bars on their windows; everyone had guards; and lots of people had these big, terrible dogs.
We, on the other hand, had two Jack Russells. We were more interested in the alarm that they provided than the violent destruction of thieves.
I am glad to say that Husky and Big Ugly are gone for now, though I may just take the newly fixed car when I go to pick up Bea instead of walking, until I can be absolutely sure.
And now, after a little writing therapy, I am calm and I can work.
Comments
Right--who cares about your bum?